Maybe Now (Maybe #2)(45)

I cried.

I cried…because I was deaf.

It’s one of the few times I’ve ever felt resentful about this part of me that has limited my life so significantly. And it’s the first and only time I’ve ever cried because of it. I still remember how I felt in that moment. I was angry. I was bitter. Upset that I had been cursed with this disability that hindered me in so many ways, even though most of my days were spent not even thinking about it.

But that day—that moment—gutted me. I wanted to feel the complete effect of that sunrise. I wanted to absorb every call of the seagulls flying overhead. I wanted the sound of the waves to enter my ears and trickle down my chest until I could feel them thrashing around in my stomach.

I cried because I felt sorry for myself. As soon as the sun had risen fully, I stood up and walked away from the beach, but I couldn’t walk away from that feeling. The bitterness followed me throughout the entire day.

I haven’t been back to the ocean since.

As I sit here with my hands pressed against the tile of the shower, the spray of the water beating down on my face, I can’t help but think about that feeling. And how, until that moment, I never truly understood what Maggie probably feels on a daily basis. Bitter and hurt that she was dealt a hand in life that she’s expected to accept with grace and ease.

It’s easy for someone on the outside to look in and think that Maggie is being selfish. That she’s not thinking about anyone’s feelings but her own. Even I think that a lot of the time. But it wasn’t until that day on the beach two years ago that I truly understood her with every part of my being.

My being deaf limits me very little. I’m still able to do every single other thing in the world besides hear.

But Maggie is limited in countless ways. Ways that I can’t even fathom. My one bitter day on the beach alone when I truly felt the weight of my disability is probably how Maggie feels on a daily basis. Yet those on the outside of her illness would probably look at her pattern of behavior and say that she’s ungrateful. Selfish. Despicable, even.

And they would be right. She is all those things. But the difference between Maggie and judgmental people who aren’t Maggie is that she has every right in the world to be all those things.

Since the day I met her, she has been fiercely independent. She hates feeling as if she’s hindering the lives of those around her. She dreams of traveling the world, of taking risks, of doing all the things her illness tells her she can’t do. She wants to feel the stress of college and a career. She wants to revel in the independence the world doesn’t think she deserves. She wants to break free of the chains that remind her of her illness.

And every time I want to scold her or point out everything she’s doing wrong and all the ways she’s hindering her own longevity, I only need to think back on that moment at the beach. That moment that I would have done whatever it took to be able to hear everything I was feeling.

I would have traded years of my life for just one minute of normalcy.

That’s exactly what Maggie’s doing. She just wants a minute of normalcy. And the only way she gets those moments of normalcy are when she ignores the weight of her reality.

If I could rewind the clock and start yesterday over again, I would do so many things differently. I would have included Sydney in that trip. I wouldn’t have allowed Maggie to leave the hospital. And I would have sat down with her and explained to her that I want to help her. I want to be there for her. But I can’t be there for her when she refuses to be there for herself.

Instead, I allowed every pent-up negative thought I’ve never said spill out all at once. It was truthful, yes, but the delivery was hurtful. There are much better ways to share your truth than to force it on someone so hard it injures them.

Maggie’s feelings were hurt. Her pride was bruised. And while it’s easy for me to say her actions warranted my reaction, it doesn’t mean I don’t regret that reaction.

I’m trying not to think about it, but it’s consuming me. And I know the only thing that can alleviate everything I’m feeling is to talk to the one person in my life who understands my feelings more than anyone. But she’s also the last person I want to subject to a discussion about Maggie.

I turn off the water in Sydney’s shower. I’ve been in here for over half an hour, but I’m trying hard to figure out how to suppress everything I’m feeling right now. Sydney deserves a night untainted by my past relationship. This week has been tough, and she deserves one night of near perfection, where she is my sole focus and I am hers.

And I’m going to give her that.

I walk out of her bathroom in just a towel. Not because I’m trying to distract her from the homework she’s currently doing on her bed, but because my pants are on her bedroom floor and I need them. When I drop the towel and pull on my jeans, she looks up from her homework with the tip of her pencil in her mouth, chewing on it with a grin.

I smile back at her because I can’t help it. She pushes her books aside and pats the bed beside her. I sit down and lean back against the headboard. She slides her leg over me and straddles me, running her hands through my wet hair. She leans forward, kissing me on the forehead, and I’m not sure if she’s ever done that before. I close my eyes as she plants soft kisses all over my face. She ends with a soft peck against my lips.

I just want to revel in this moment, so I pull her to me, not really interested in conversation or making out. I just want to hold her and keep my eyes closed and appreciate that she’s mine. And she allows it for all of two minutes, but one of the advantages she holds over me is being able to hear the sighs I forget I’m even releasing.